


A Room with a View

by useyourtelescope (thedreamygirl)



Category: Miss Marple - Agatha Christie, Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Background Case, First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 12:30:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13636326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedreamygirl/pseuds/useyourtelescope
Summary: A case brings Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot together.





	A Room with a View

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



> Title credit to the E.M. Forster novel. Thank you to my beta.
> 
> Includes a (very slight) spoiler for the Miss Marple novel '4.50 From Paddington'.  
> Poirot's line on heart failure is a direct quote from the man himself in the short story 'The Tragedy at Marsden Manor', part of the collection 'Poirot Investigates'.

There was nothing immediately remarkable about the guest house. Though that did not stop the easily pleased Hastings from commenting, upon their arrival, “What a charming looking place.”

“Indeed,” Poirot replied, unable to stop himself from adding, “Apart from the fact that a murderer may lie within.”

Hastings could not argue with that.

The pair had been dining out the previous evening when one of Hastings’ acquaintances introduced them to his lawyer, a Mr. Willard. The man had recognised the detective’s name instantly, as Poirot had apparently solved some cases for his law firm in the past. When they were alone Mr. Willard had mentioned to Poirot that one of his clients had passed away unexpectedly the night before. Without wanting to be indiscreet, he suggested that the timing of the death was perhaps a little suspect. The deceased, who had apparently passed away quietly in his sleep, had been given a clean bill of health by his doctor only two months prior, but had recently changed his will to include more than one new notable beneficiary.

Hastings had not taken much interest in the matter, especially since Mr. Willard was not actually hiring their services. However, they had been through a quiet spell as of late, and Poirot could not resist the opportunity to unravel this new puzzle. The village was not very far outside of London and Inspector Japp had put in a call to the local police. They were largely indifferent to the prospect of an investigator delving into the matter, so before three o’clock in the afternoon Poirot and Hastings were standing outside the guest house Mr. Allen had been residing in when he died.

“Are you sure this was worth us looking into, Poirot?” Hastings wondered, adjusting his hold on their bags as he paused outside the front door.

Poirot shrugged. “We won’t know, mon ami, until we obtain all the facts.”

“Didn’t sound like much of a case to me,” the Captain commented. “Heart failure in a man of Mr. Allen’s age is hardly extraordinary.”

Poirot shook his head, pushing the front door open. “Heart failure may always be translated as the inability of the local GP to discover what his patient really did die of.”

Any rejoinder Hastings could have made to Poirot’s statement was dashed as Mr. Cooke, the proprietor of the guest house, came forward to greet them instantly. When he called in advance to check if there were rooms available (other than the one that had been very unexpectedly vacated), Poirot had also mentioned that they would be investigating the circumstances of his guest’s death. Accordingly, Mr. Cooke did not dawdle in signing them in, and after a quick stop to leave their bags in their rooms, he took them straight to Mr. Allen’s former room.

Mr Cooke was clearly surprised to find it occupied, starting at the sight of two young ladies standing chatting by the fire. “What are you doing here?” he exclaimed. “You should be working, Mary!”

The two girls had similar features, and short dark hair cut in fashionable bobs, but there was a sharp contrast in their dress styles and presence. Although Poirot suspected they were a similar age, likely early 20s, the taller of the girls had an air of confidence about her that made her appear much older.

It was the shorter, younger looking girl who replied, pouting, “But I am, Papa,” she said, and flicked her wrist so that the duster in her hand brushed the edge of the mantelpiece. Poirot tried not to shudder as he considered the state his room must be in, if all the rooms were cleaned so carelessly.

It had not escaped Poirot’s notice that a third, much older, lady was also present in the room. She was only partially hidden by the heavy curtains, which matched the shade of her cardigan, as she quietly looked out the window to the left of the fireplace. It became clear though that Mr. Cooke had overlooked her entirely with his next speech.

“Mary, what have I said about Miss Robinson joining you when you’re working. And to bring her in here – And a guest!” he added, suddenly. “I do apologise, Miss Marple.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright,” the other young lady, presumably Miss Robinson, interjected. “This is my Aunt Jane. She and my grandmother went to school together when they were girls, and she’s mama’s godmother. Didn’t I mention that before?”

“No,” he said. “Though I do remember Miss Marple saying she had come to visit friends,” he added, in a softer tone towards that lady.

“I have been meaning to visit Elizabeth and her daughter for some time since they moved to the village,” Miss Jane Marple informed them, bestowing a genial smile. “But I can’t travel as often as I would like, and their new house is a little too small for a guest to stay over. And then my dear nephew Raymond surprised me by paying for the trip, and a stay at this lovely place. Raymond is so good to me, you know.”

“Who are your friends?” Miss Robinson asked of Mr. Cooke. “I’m sure I know everyone in the village and I’ve never seen either of you before.”

Mr. Cooke grimaced. “This is Mr. Hercule Poirot, and his associate Captain Hastings.” Once the requisite greetings and acknowledgements had been shared, the man added, “They’re here to investigate Mr. Allen’s passing. Mr. Poirot is a famous detective.”

“Oh, how wonderful. Aunt Jane is a real whiz with mysteries too,” Miss Robinson noted.

Miss Marple smiled, but waved a hand dismissively at Miss Robinson’s praise. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

However, Miss Robinson continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, “So, we came here to see the scene of the crime, as it were.”

“And if you’re here, Mr. Poirot, that must mean you think it’s murder?” Miss. Cooke asked to Poirot’s amusement.

“We must first analyse the facts,” said Poirot, “and see what we shall find.”

Miss Marple nodded. “Very wise.”

Miss Robinson seemed on the cusp of making her own remark, but Mr. Cooke interrupted insisting his daughter return to her duties elsewhere, with a reminder that she should not allow just anyone to wonder into the empty rooms.

“If we must go,” Miss Robinson grumbled. “I suppose there wasn’t anything to see anyway.”

“I’d much rather look at your letters,” Miss Cooke whispered to her friend on their way out.

“Oh, those silly old things.” Miss Robinson laughed.

The two girls made their goodbyes and left quickly under the watchful eyes of Mr. Cooke. The older lady took slightly longer to follow, eyes hesitating on the skyline.

“Such a lovely day,” Miss Marple mused, as she took her leave. “Don’t forget to look out the window,” she added, before departing.

“I say,” Captain Hastings remarked once the three men were alone the room, “a hint of a suspicious death and there’s no telling who’ll come to gawk at it.”

“You’re telling me,” Mr. Cooke frowned. “Nearly everyone from the village has made up some excuse to pay a visit. I thought my Mary knew better.”

Hastings and Mr. Cooke continued to share their complaints, but Poirot ignored them, walking around the pair to head straight for the chair Mr. Allen had been found in. He had work to do.

 

* * *

 

The following day, Mrs. Elizabeth Robinson and Miss Pamela Robinson decided to visit town after lunch. However, as much as they implored her, Miss Marple would not join them. The whole village had been aflutter since Mr. Allen’s passing, and for all the man had only been there for little over than a month, everyone had a story to share about their last interaction with him. Although Jane had known him the shortest time, having only arrived at the village four days before Mr. Allen’s death, she had the unfortunate distinction of sharing the same floor of the guest house with him. Naturally, she was peppered with questions about what she saw or heard in the small hours of that fateful night, and no one was satisfied that the true answer was, in fact, she had seen very little. At her age, she was in bed well before then.

After all the excitement, the last thing Jane wanted was a jaunt, so she bid farewell to the Robinson ladies when they left, and settled down in the garden of the guest house to get on with her knitting.

She had been there for a good hour knitting quietly by herself, apart from a short interruption from Miss Cooke when she had brought over some tea. Jane rather liked the quiet, so she was perfectly at ease with this when her solitude was shattered by a loud cry from the opposite end of the garden.

“Sacré bleu! I am an imbecile!”

The dismayed shout may have shocked another guest, but Miss Marple dropped nary a stitch.

“Oh, I am sure you need not be so hard on yourself, Mr. Poirot.”

The man swivelled round in place and stared at her, though the look in his eyes suggested he had not taken in her words. “The pipe!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” Miss Marple nodded solemnly, as she continued with garter stitch. “I missed it first myself. You know, on my first day here, I took a turn about the garden with Elizabeth, and I even said to her that the ivy was just like what has been troubling the Nevilles at their house in St. Mary Mead, but I didn’t see the pipe behind it. It was very fortuitous for the murderer that the ivy grew around the pipe like that. Though perhaps not for the Cookes. I can’t tell you how many drainage problems the Nevilles have had recently since the ivy started getting in the cracks. At this rate, they will be taking the whole thing down.”

At this beginning of this speech, Mr. Poirot had regarded her from afar still in place right outside the guesthouse, near the aforementioned ivy. As Jane continued he began to approach her slowly, considering, so by the time she had finished he was right in front of her.

He paused, and for a few moments there was only the faint sound of knitting needles clicking together. Then, Mr. Poirot mused, “Yesterday, when you told us to look out the window. You were thinking of the pipe, ah?”

“Oh, yes. I had seen it after that first day, but it was only once I was in what had been Mr. Allen’s room and I looked out the window, that I remembered the day young Billy Neville had been locked in his bedroom for punishment and he tried to climb out using the drainpipe. Of course, then he got stuck so his father had to get him down, and his punishment lasted twice as long. He’s quite an athletic boy, Billy, but his legs were far too short to make the jump. A full-grown man, though? I’m sure he could reach easily.”

Mr. Poirot smiled, before commenting shrewdly, “My dear lady, you see all.”

“Oh, I just happen to make a few observations here and there.”

“May I join you, Madame?” Mr. Poirot asked, gesturing to the vacant chair on the other side of the table. “I think you and I should discuss all our observations.”

“Of course, Mr. Poirot. Though I hope you don’t mind if I continue with my scarf?” she asked, keeping up the pace of her knitting. “I don’t have to finish it today – I have so many projects these days, and more than I know what to do with really – but I find it helps me think.”

As Mr. Poirot took his seat, he nodded his assent. “Whatever your little grey cells require.”

 

* * *

 

They were in the same place, quietly sipping cups of tea when Hastings found them a few hours later.

“Poirot!” he called, rushing towards them. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Poirot returned his teacup to the saucer in his lap carefully, before replying, “My apologies, mon ami. I did not mean to concern you.”

“Well,” Hastings said, confused as he glanced between the pair. They were sitting on opposite sides of the garden table, but neither faced each other. Instead, both their chairs faced out towards the back wall of the guest house and, now, him. From the half-empty tray of scones Hastings supposed they had been there a while. “I thought we were going to question a few more of the locals,” he reminded Poirot.

“I am afraid we will no longer be embarking on that mission. Miss Marple and I have just been discussing another matter.”

“What matter is that?”

“The matter of Miss Robinson’s letters.”

“What?” Hastings exclaimed. Neither of them appeared to be joking. He nearly asked Poirot if he had gone mad, but thought it best to check himself in front of the old lady, who was some connection to the girl. “Is it such a serious matter?” he asked, pulling up the chair from another table and sitting down facing them. Hastings recalled some vague mention of letters, though he had assumed them romantic in nature. “Are they threatening letters?” he wondered.

“Oh no, love letters. Very mild,” Miss Marple noted.

“And she has asked you to figure out who her admirer is?” Hastings guessed

“No.”

“Which is very well,” Poirot said, “since, alas, it is not to be.”

“It’s not?” Hastings frowned, growing even more perplexed. “You mean you can’t work out who Miss Robinson’s admirer is?”

“No. Because such a person does not exist,” Poirot said dramatically.

“Well, at least not one that sent her love letters,” Miss Marple corrected, before setting down her teacup to butter a scone.

Poirot nodded quickly, in agreement, “Yes, yes. To be sure, Miss Robinson must have had a number of admirers, but not the writer of the letters. For the letters were not meant for her!”

“Then who were they meant for?”

“Elizabeth,” Miss Marple revealed. “She is a widow, you know. Nearly eight years now since Mr. Robinson passed away.”

Hastings shook his head, astounded. “Mrs. Robinson. Quite a dark horse, I must say.”

“It was Miss Cooke who saw the first letter come in when she was at their house, which I’m sorry to say was the start of the whole muddle,” Miss Marple explained. “It wasn’t addressed and she immediately assumed her friend was the intended recipient. Since then the assumption has just continued by the family, which is a shame since Elizabeth is far more charmed by the affair than young Pamela. She finds the whole thing quite old-fashioned.”

“Miss Robinson is more astute than she realises,” Poirot observed. “Merci,” he added, when Miss Marple passed him a scone.

“I see,” Hastings said, though his brain still felt a little fuzzy.

“Mr. Poirot and I both have a different theory as to who is the author of the letters. We cannot agree between Mr. Parker or Mr. Henry. Perhaps you would be able to help us choose, Captain Hastings?” Miss Marple suggested. “Which do you think might be Mrs. Robinson’s admirer?”

On the spot, Hastings looked blankly between them, unable to recall much of note in his short conversations with the two men, both local to the village for some time. “Well, I don’t know. And why only those two? What about the younger Mr. Allen?” he added, remembering the deceased gentlemen’s son, who was a similar age to the other men. He had been in the village the briefest period, apparently arriving two weeks or so after his father, which was a short time to have formed such a strong attachment, but Hastings had seen stranger things since he met Hercule Poirot. “He seemed to get on well with Mrs. Robinson from what I could see yesterday evening. Would he not be a good suitor for the lady?”

“He may be, my dear Hastings, if he were not the murderer.”

“The murderer?” Hastings cried.

Miss Marple nodded her head solemnly. “Quite so, I’m afraid. Quite so. And, I’ve seen his handwriting and it is no match for the letters.”

“Dash the letters!” Hastings’ eyes darted between the calm faces, aghast. He had rather liked the chap. “You’re quite certain Mr. Allen is the murderer? Do the police know?”

“Oh no,” Miss Marple told him. “Not yet.”

“We must call them at once!” Hastings rose from his chair, but Poirot put up a hand to stop him.

“No, mon ami, we cannot call the police. There is the little matter of evidence.”

Hastings continued to gape at them.

“Scone?” Miss Marple offered.

“Oh. Well, I suppose,” he said, sitting back down and taking the dish with the buttered scone that she passed to him. “But will someone please tell me what the devil is going on?”

Poirot seemed to take pity on him. “You remember how the lawyer, Mr. Willard, was convinced one of the will’s new beneficiaries might have hastened Mr. Allen’s departure from this world? I put to you that it was his original beneficiary – who had previously been the sole beneficiary – who killed him!”

“But the will had already been changed,” Hastings argued. “Killing his father now doesn’t give Mr. Allen any more money.”

“Not more than he would have received originally, certainly,” Miss Marple said. “But remember Mr. Allen senior had worked long past the usual retirement age, amassing quite a fortune. He only just stopped working a few months ago.”

“He had begun to travel around England, sampling different walks of life from that he had been used to. But it all costs money, no? So, the longer he lives, the smaller the sum that would be left for his son.”

“And let’s not forget,” Miss Marple added, “the man’s temper. Mr. Allen must have been extremely angry when he found out his father his father had changed the will to include provision for his former colleagues and friends, with an equal split no less.”

“But I thought Mr. Allen wasn’t even in the village at the time of his father’s death. Hadn’t he gone up to town, or something?” Hastings wondered.

“Precisement, Hastings, you remember our interviews yesterday. The night of the murder was Miss Cooke’s birthday dinner. Nearly the whole village attended, and the guest house was so full that no one could remember the other attendants exact movements. Now, that is not very surprising when you have a big crowd in such a small dining area. But who is the one person, that everyone remembered arriving?”

Hastings gasped. “Why, Mr. Allen!”

“Exactly,” Poirot said.

“He made sure of it,” Miss Marple nodded, picking up her knitting from the table. “What a racket he made outside, we couldn’t miss it. And he knew everyone would be distracted by the celebrations.”

“Oui. So, all he has to do is time his entrance well and return much earlier than anyone thought, when no one is at the front desk. He knows his father well, and that he will have left the party early. He goes to his father’s room to join him for a nightcap, and slips something in the old man’s drink. Once his father has drifted off he climbs out the window via the drain pipe and voila! Mr. Allen enters the guest house once again, and no one is any the wiser. He stays up with everyone, talking the rest of the night – even though Miss Marple herself can attest he was not very friendly with the other guests beforehand – and then, when Mr. Allen senior is found dead the next morning, he has a perfect alibi for the time of death.”

Hastings chewed on his scone, taking it all in. “I see. But where do we look for evidence?” he wondered.

At that, both Poirot and Miss Marple raised their eyes in the direction they had been looking earlier. Hastings looked over his shoulder to follow their gazes, up the back wall of the guest house, more than half of it covered in ivy.

“Is that the elder Mr. Allen’s bedroom up there?”

“Oui.”

“You know,” Miss Marple began thoughtfully, “I find the recreation of an event can be wonderfully stimulating. Once my friend Mrs. McGillicuddy had witnessed a killing, but didn’t think she could identify the murderer. However, when she saw him in a similar position, that was all it took to make the connection.”

“A recreation, yes,” Poirot mused. “I also like the little experiments. I think that is an excellent idea. Hastings, would you mind standing for us?”

The Captain frowned as he turned back to them. Neither elaborated, only shared a knowing look with one another, but there didn’t seem much harm in standing up.

“Oh,” Miss Marple said approvingly, when Hastings had done as requested. “He even looks the right height.”

“The right height for what?”

“Just a small task, mon ami. Would you please go into Mr. Allen’s room and then climb out the window and down the drainpipe?”

“What?!”

“If you would be so kind, Captain Hastings? It would be awfully helpful. Though you must try to make as little noise as possible as you climb down.”

Poirot nodded. “Yes, you must enter the mind of a murderer trying to make his quick getaway.”

Hastings stared at them both, dumfounded.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Marple commented. “If you think it will be too much for you, Captain Hastings, we could always wait until Miss Robinson comes back from town. She is wonderfully agile.”

Hastings scowled. Then, he removed his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves.

 

He managed the descent from the window cleanly, although he faltered at the last moment. It was his pride rather than his foot that was injured when he tripped over the bush, returning to land. Poirot tried to soothe him later by reminding Hastings his actions had given them a vital clue, for he did find a torn piece of what turned out to be the younger Mr. Allen’s shirt stuck among the ivy leaves, somewhere between the first and second floor. Hastings wasn’t entirely mollified by Mr. Allen’s subsequent arrest, though Miss Marple’s parting gift of her newly finished scarf improved his mood a little.

Still, he couldn’t resist reminding Poirot that he had never solved the mystery of Mrs. Robinson’s admirer. At least until two months later, when Poirot received a letter from his new correspondent, informing him of Mrs. Robinson’s engagement to Mr. Parker.

“So, what do you say to that Hastings, eh?”

“You may have deduced the true recipient of the love letters,” Hastings allowed, “but, you know, you never said if Mr. Parker was your choice or Miss Marple’s? So, which of you really had it right?”

Poirot only smiled. “That will be our little secret.”


End file.
